Ilsa is hungry and cold.
Grey Carpathian clouds bathe her and whisper,
"You do not matter,"
As Kanye West blares out on the village square.
Instant communication and isolation,
Powers merging capital lost within concrete spires.
The beauty of the lone dove abstracted
Into charity black holes worthy of Sagan.
Gorged on hormones and certified nutrients,
Western Saviors worry that Wal-Mart will
Begin to charge for plastic shopping bags, content
That moral compasses are available on E-Bay.
Zombies attack giant plasma screens in surround sound,
American Idol smothers remaining conscience sparks.
Ilsa doesn't return home, her rigid empty body
Prone on the dirty Balkan street, forgotten, unGoogled.
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